


I Do Love to See You Blush

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk Texting, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 07:59:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6044083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hungover John was surprised to find himself in Sherlock's bed in the morning, but that was nothing compared to what he found on his phone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Do Love to See You Blush

John felt nauseated. His head throbbed like… some throbbing thing. He couldn’t even think. He couldn’t even figure out what possible reason he had to be awake, so he rolled to his stomach, pressing his face into the pillow. As he breathed in, inhaling a sweet, spicy scent that was familiar but wrong, his phone chimed.

The smell was wrong. The chime was right, but it was coming from the wrong place. He usually put his phone on the bedside table before he went to bed. It should be right by his head, but it sounded like it was coming from far away. It sounded muffled.

With a snort, John’s head popped up, and he took a bleary, blurry look around the room. The window was in the wrong place. The bed was too big.

He blinked several times, struggling to make the room come into focus between his pounding temples. This wasn’t his room, but where was he? He could have sworn he remembered coming home.

After several more blinks and far too much time than was reassuring for his brain cells, John realized where he was. He was in Sherlock’s bed, which was actually far more confusing than not knowing where he was. True, he couldn’t quite remember what circumstances had brought him here, but he could be fairly certain he and Sherlock hadn’t slept together the night before.

For one, the only physical affection they had shared to date had been one brief brush of lips that they absolutely Had Not Talked About. They had just finished up a case the night before. Sherlock had dropped his coat in the front hallway after a charged trip in a cab, where John had felt like he was approximately twelve, his heart racing over the overlapping of pinkies.

They had been right on the precipice--Sherlock’s mouth open and inviting, John’s hands tangled in his hair--but just as their lips met, they heard the only two words that could have possibly broken them apart in that moment.

“Yoo hoo,” Mrs. Hudson had called, trotting up the stairs. “Sherlock, your phone is ringing.”

John had turned away from the stairs, scrubbing through the hair on the back of his head, as Sherlock huffed. Only the barest susurrus of a growl had betrayed the true measure of his frustration.

He had given Mrs. Hudson a tight smile as he took the phone from her hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he’d said, glancing at the phone and letting out a true growl as he swiped the screen. “What?”

Sherlock had wandered into the kitchen as Mrs. Hudson made her way down the stairs, leaving John standing alone in the sitting room. He’d watched Sherlock’s back as he’d murmured and grunted into the phone, his hips swaying in what John had come to call Sherlock’s phone dance. He’d been tempted to step up behind Sherlock, lay his hands over Sherlock’s hips to still them, maybe push up to his tiptoes to kiss the nape of Sherlock’s neck. He’d imagined that Sherlock would peer over his shoulder and tell whoever was on the phone to piss off before their lips finally met.

But, one almost kiss didn’t mean other forms of physical affection were allowed, so John had held back the urge, his fingers clamping over his own hips as he rocked on his heels. He’d watched his own feet, pressing his lips together before peering up at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s hips had quit swaying, and he’d stood stooped over the table. His fingers dragged against the surface, punctuated with a rap of his knuckles before they started their path again.

With one sharp nod, he’d said, “Fine,” the only word loud enough in the conversation to that point for John to understand.

With more emphasis than was strictly necessary, Sherlock had jabbed his mobile screen and spun on his heel to face John. John could have sworn that Sherlock’s hair had frizzed from the wind he’d generated on the spin, but no, John’s fingers had done that. On the realization, John had swallowed. He had been ready to close the distance between them, to pick up where they left off, but Sherlock’s face had given him pause.

His expression had been shuttered, his eyes cast down on the phone as he flipped it over and over in one hand. He’d let out one long exhalation through his nose before he’d looked up, slipping the phone into his trouser pocket.

The corner of his mouth had twitched, but his eyes had betrayed a turmoil his mouth had not. “I have to go.”

“Sherlock, I’m sorry if--”

“No.” Sherlock had looked down, slipping his hands into his pockets as he rocked back on his heels. “It’s… unrelated. I have to go home. My mother’s in hospital.”

“All right.” John had nodded and headed for the door.

“No,” Sherlock had said, rushing through the side door of the kitchen to stop John at the top of the stairs. “Stay here.”

“No, I’m coming with you.”

“John.” Sherlock had pressed his palm to the center of John’s chest, his eyes imploring. “Please.”

John had stared into Sherlock’s eyes. His gaze had flitted to Sherlock’s mouth, the bottom lip pinched between Sherlock’s teeth. John had had the momentary fantasy of replacing Sherlock’s teeth with his own before he’d forced his gaze back to Sherlock’s eyes. And looking into those shining eyes, John had found he couldn’t say no.

John had stepped back with a nod. “All right.”

And with that, Sherlock had swept down the stairs, into his coat, and out the door, where no doubt a car from Mycroft had been waiting.

Still struggling to blink the sleep from his eyes, John woke up his phone.

_Sleep well? SH_

John didn’t know why, but he was sure the tone was sarcastic. He blinked some more at the screen, trying to formulate a response from the pea-soup fog in his mind, when he saw a handful of messages timestamped well past midnight last night. It was just an innocuous series of good night messages, but they sent an odd mix of images swirling through his brain and an odd twinge of tension to his groin.

His heart seized in his chest like it had been punched by a prize fighter. What had he done?

John’s thumbs trembled above the keyboard, wanting to ask the question of what happened last night but fearing the answer and fearing what might happen if Sherlock knew whatever it was had been forgotten. With a gust of breath, John sat up, the covers falling away from his bare torso, and his head spun.

God. Why wasn’t he wearing a shirt? Holding his temple against the heel of his hand, he lifted the covers from his legs and let out a long breath of relief that he was still wearing pants. The relief wasn’t long to last, however, because the next misty memory that swirled through his brain was of him sitting up in Sherlock’s bed, shedding his shirt, and rubbing the heel of one hand against his nipples.

What had he done?

With a deceptively still hand, he lifted the phone, tapping the top of the screen to take him back in time. It started simply enough, with Sherlock texting John that he had arrived, sending John a picture of Sherlock’s old room, complaining about hospital coffee, and assuring John that everything was fine. However, after a long gap in the timestamps came a text from John.

_I’m sleeping in your bed._

_Why? SH_

_Mine’s too ffar._

_Too far from what? SH_

_Too far_

_Ah, you’re drunk, I see. SH_

_Gerg’s fault_

_Who? SH_

_Lestrade, you ninny_

Ah, yes. That, John remembered. He’d gone for a pint with Greg. It had started out just fine. They’d had a couple of beers, watched some football, talked about work, talked about Sherlock. He hadn’t intended to get drunk, and that plan had gone swimmingly until Greg had proposed a drinking game.

The terms had been these: whenever one of them talked about Sherlock, he had to take a shot. Admittedly, John had never been good at keeping Sherlock out of the conversation--he had a number of ex-girlfriends who would attest to that fact--but he had been doing well. That was, until Sherlock had sent him a picture of his childhood bedroom.

“Oh my God,” John had laughed, showing the picture to Lestrade. “Sherlock had a David Bowie poster on his wall.”

Lestrade had smiled and turned to the barman. “My friend will have a shot of the cheapest whiskey you’ve got.”

And then it had been all over. He’d lost count of how much he’d had by the time Lestrade dropped him at the door. He had a vague memory of lumbering up the seventeen stairs to their flat, and he was fairly certain that if he went out into the sitting room, he would find his coat and keys in a pile just inside the door. The stairs to his room had seemed insurmountable, and Sherlock’s bed had seemed so… close by.

The next text was from John, timestamped nearly ten minutes later.

_Your bed smells nice. Like you._

_I would certainly hope so. SH_

_Do you ever wank in here?_

_What? SH_

_I knew you had huge gaps in your genius brain, but I thought you could read._

_Very funny. SH_

_I thought so._

_Why do you want to know? SH_

_Curiosity._

_No. SH_

_No?_

_You get aroused when you drink. SH_

_Fascinating you’ve Benny keeping track._

_Given the events of earlier this evening, are you truly surprised that I would notice? SH_

_So you’d do._

_Do what? SH_

_Get off in here._

_Why would you think that I wouldn’t? SH_

_I dunno. Same reason you dont eat or sleep._

_During cases. SH_

_You’re saying you have a want when we’re done with a case?_

_Perhaps. SH_

_I do._

John smacked the phone to the center of his forehead. What had possessed him to admit that? What had possessed him to start down that track in the first place? He probably scared Sherlock off before they even started. But, then again, if that were the case, why were there still pages and pages of messages to go?

John stared at the scroll bar still near the top of the screen and girded his loins, easing his fingertip up from the bottom of the screen to reveal the next few messages.

_Do you? Why? SH_

_Haven’t you deducted it?_

_If I had, why would I ask? SH_

_Socratic method?_

_Just tell me. SH_

_Curiosity killed the cay._

_And satisfaction brought it back. SH_

_You really don’t know why I’m wank after a case?_

_I’d prefer if you confirmed it for me. SH_

_Can you’re into the loo from your bed room?_

_What? SH_

_Can you see into the loo?_

_That doesn’t answer my question. SH_

_I’ getting their. Calm your tits._

_Lovely. SH_

John had to drop the phone again. He wanted to bury his face in a pillow and scream, but he was a middle-aged man. So, he settled for dragging his palms over his face and growling. He was mortified. Apparently, drunk John thought one almost kiss made it totally acceptable to share every lurid fantasy he’d ever had about his flatmate.

How many times would he have to gird his loins to get through this conversation?

_Sometimes, the morning ring after a. Case, when you’re sleeping on n and a have to go to work, I’ll have a wank in the shower._

_Can you see through the door?_

There was a gap in the timestamps before Sherlock answered, and a laugh tried to bubble up John’s throat. Was Sherlock embarrassed?

_Why do you want to know? SH_

_Because sometimes I wonder if you’re already awake when I go into take a shower. If you can see me getting undressed._

After another long gap came another message from John.

_Sherlock?_

_Yes. SH_

_All right?_

_Yes. SH_

_Are you surr?_

_Tell me more. SH_

John blinked at the screen. Did he read that right? He couldn’t quite believe it, but several readings only confirmed that Sherlock had actually asked John to elaborate on his post-case masturbation fantasies.

_Can you see me through the door?_

_Fine. Yes. SH_

_Dirty. ;)_

_Your turn. SH_

_I like to imagien you’re watched gang me from your bed._

_Watched gang? SH_

_Watching_

_I can’t see into the bathroom from my bed. SH_

_Then where would you sit to watch me?_

After another gap in the timestamps, Sherlock had replied. _The chair by my wardrobe. SH_

John’s jaw dropped, and his gaze shot over to the chair. How had he never noticed it before? He supposed he had assumed it was just a place for Sherlock to drape his clothes as he got dressed, or maybe a place to sit as he put on his shoes, but it faced the bathroom door almost dead on. Had he? Had he really?

At that point, John was fairly certain that the majority of blood in his body had either just rushed to his face or his groin. He looked at his phone.

_Oh, your naughty thing._

_I admit nothing. SH_

_Doesn’t take a genius to deduce tha t own._

_Shut up. SH_

_Is the dirty peeper embarassed?_

_I have nothing about which to be embarrassed. SH_

_Pity. I love to see tou blush._

_You do? SH_

_Are you Blau sing now?_

_Blushing_

_Of course not. SH_

_Le t me see._

The next message was a picture of Sherlock. Warm light spilled over the side of his face, his hair in a frizzy halo on the pillow behind his head. His expression was serious, the same haughty pout that was his face’s default position, but two spots of pink stood out against his pale skin. John had to giggle. It was as if Sherlock thought a serious expression would hide the color so apparent on his face. Sherlock’s skin was so pale that John could practically take his temperature from the level of flush on his skin.

As John scrolled a bit further, however, Sherlock’s bare neck and clavicles came into view, and the laughter choked in John’s throat, making him cough.

_Gorgeous._

_You flatter me, doctor. SH_

_What are you weaker?_

_Wearing. God_

_Who’s the naughty thing now? SH_

_You wet begging the question._

_That’s an improper use of that phrase, John. SH_

_Do you want to know what I’m wearing?_

_Can I stop you? SH_

_Do you want to?_

_Curiosity must be sated. SH_

_Curiosity. Sure. I’m in a Tahiti and pants._

_Tahiti? SH_

_Damn it! t0shirt_

_Boring. SH_

_And I suppose your atire is much more exiting._

_I could say that if I were wearing anything. SH_

_My god._

_You didn’t know that I prefer to sleep nude? SH_

_The way you fan about in your sheet, I should have guseed._

_Quite right. SH_

_God, those sheet s. Do you save any idea how you look in those?_

_I do own a mirror. SH_

_You look edible._

_I’ll take that as a compliment and not an admission to cannibalistic tendencies. SH_

_Pedantic arse. I’m trying to at a you look sexy. Accept the compliment._

_Thank you. SH_

_I remember once when I was working on my laptop. I can’t even remember what I was doung. You flopped down on the sofa in that stupdi sheet and your leg was peeking out. And ebery time you moved the sheet would fall a little more and there you were, flipping g throug a magazine, totally oblivious. The things. wanted to do to you._

_Do tell. SH_

_I wanted to slide my hand up in tehre, run my hand over your stomach and feel the mucsclez jump under it. I wanted to toy with your bipples until they were hard and strain ing and every little brush of fabric against them would drive you crazy. I wanted to stroke tour prick until you came on the inside of the sheet or maybe push it aise d and let you fuck my mouth._

_Why didn’t you? SH_

_Why didn’t I molest my flat mate? Seriously?_

_I would have been amenable. SH_

_Well I didn’t know that then did I?_

_We’ve wasted so much time. SH_

_We’ll just have to make yo for it, then._

_Indeed. SH_

_We could start bow._

_What are you suggesting? SH_

_Are you turns on?_

_Turned on? Yes. SH_

John’s heart was racing, his face hot and probably beet red, and his cock was so hard it was almost painful. He couldn’t believe what he was reading.

He flipped his phone over and over, inspecting every speck of dust, every tiny crack. Was this really his phone? It hadn’t been replaced with a duplicate? What a waste that he had done this and didn’t remember.

John paused, glee bubbling up and coming out in the shape of a wicked smile. If he didn’t remember this, he might as well enjoy it now. So, he settled back against the pillows, phone in his right hand and his left teasing over the bulge in his pants.

_Show me._

The next message was a picture. Sherlock’s bare torso dominated the frame against a white backdrop, his dark body hair in sharp contrast with the white sheets behind him and his own pale skin. The arm that wasn’t stretched above him to get this aerial shot was stretched down his body, hand fisted in the sheet low on his groin. The vee of Sherlock’s lower abdominal muscles pointed straight down to it, and if that weren’t there, the trail of dark hair that thickened below his navel would have centered the focus of John’s eye quite well.

There may as well have been a neon sign. Every part of that picture screamed for John to look at the hand crumpling in the bedsheet, for him to wonder and fantasize about what lay beneath. It was the most blindingly erotic image ever to grace the screen of his phone, and it was a wonder that he contained the wherewithal not to throw down the phone and wank himself into oblivion right there. He was just going to have to save this to his laptop and bury it in some deep subfolder: a hidden treasure just for him.

The next message summarized John’s thoughts quite succinctly.

_Fuck._

_Indeed. SH_

_Do you have any idea what you do to me?_

_I’m gaining an understanding. SH_

_I’m in trouble, a ten’t I?_

_I should say so. SH_

_My god she flick. That photo._

_Sherlock_

_Would you like to express your gratitude? SH_

_God yes. Anything._

_Tit for tat, as they say. SH_

_You want a pic?_

_Do I really have to answer such an obvious question? SH_

_You know that t would have been much quicker to type yes._

_I’m waiting. SH_

This must have been the portion of the evening that John had remembered earlier because the next photo was of his own torso, poorly lit and askew to the frame.

_Turn on the bloody lights. SH_

John chuckled, but he silenced himself with a clack of teeth as he scrolled to the next photo. It was definitely him. He recognized the pants, but it certainly wasn’t what he expected to see. Instead of the tit that Sherlock had asked for, John’s erection--which was quite impressive considering his BAC--strained against the fabric of his pants, lifting the elastic away from his stomach. And as if that weren’t enough, he had helped that gap along by hooking his thumb under the waistband and lifting it up.

_Oh, that’s lovely. SH_

_You like that do tou?_

_Take it out. SH_

_Bossy._

_Have you done it? SH_

_Yes._

_Well? SH_

_Well what?_

_Let me see. SH_

Even before he’d put his finger to the screen, he knew what he’d see. He remembered pulling down his pants until they bunched around his thighs. He remembered curling his fingers over his balls and wrapping his thumb over the base to hold it steady. He had his knees up in the picture, highlighting the grey pants cutting across his legs. The foreskin was almost fully retracted, and bead of precome had left a glistening path down the glans, a droplet clinging to the corona.

The slit pointed directly at the camera, which he had to imagine must have been hot for Sherlock. If John had been looking at Sherlock’s cock like this, his mouth would have been watering. He would have been fantasizing about licking away that droplet and following it to its source. But, it was a bit odd to see his own cock winking at him, so he scrolled past.

_Oh. SH_

_That’s all o get? Oh?_

_I’m speechless. SH_

_It’s not exactly the way I wanted my cock to shut you up,\ but it’ll do. ;)_

_Later. SH_

_Your turn._

_What? SH_

_Tit for tat._

John’s tongue caught on his bottom lip, his hand slipping into his pants as he scrolled to the picture. And dear God, but that was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. It was another shot taken from above, this time with the white sheet thrown aside. Sherlock’s legs were splayed open like butterfly wings, and his cock jutted proudly from an unkempt maze of auburn hair. John’s mouth watered, and he gave himself a good squeeze.

His pubic hair was auburn. John didn’t know why, but that fact made the whole display so much better. Perhaps it was because John now knew a secret that no one could have guessed. He bit his lip as his gaze roamed the picture, his hand moving in his pants in time with his fantasies. Sherlock’s cock was gorgeous, not quite as pale as the rest of him, flushed and slender and perfect. God, the things John wanted to do. He wanted to press his nose to that thatch of hair and just breathe. He wanted to feel the weight of Sherlock’s bollocks in his hand, taste the salt of his skin. He wanted to cover his palm in lube and watch Sherlock’s cock slide in and out of his slick fist.

With a groan, John tossed the phone aside. He couldn’t concentrate on the image anymore. Besides, it was etched on his brain. As John thrust into his hand, all he could do was imagine Sherlock splayed on the bed. He pictured himself crawling up between spread legs, pushing Sherlock’s knees to the mattress and watching him squirm. John would tease him. He’d draw it out as long as he could until neither of them could stand it anymore. He’d lick away each individual drop of precome, tongue at the slit, perhaps swirl his tongue over the head, but never give Sherlock the suction and pressure he needed until he was begging for it. Oh God, how he wanted to hear that voice beg for John’s mouth on his cock.

John was moaning like a whore--something he never did while by himself--but he didn’t care. God, Sherlock. Sherlock wanted him. Sherlock had flirted and sent him racy photographs. He wished that he had a clearer memory of the night before, but fuck if it wasn’t the hottest thing he could think of. And assuming he hadn’t mucked it all up--he wasn’t exactly going to interrupt himself to check--he could look forward to more. Who knew how long Sherlock would be gone, but sexting like that was sure to get him through. Hell, he could use this one conversation as wank material for weeks.

His hand was frantic on his cock, too rough and too dry and he hadn’t even taken his pants off, but who the fuck cared? It was glorious, and even through the discomfort, his impending orgasm built and built until…

John felt something bump his knee. “Need a hand?”

John yelped, his hand flying out of his pants like they were on fire, his eyes snapping open. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed in one of his sinfully tight shirts--slate grey today--and trousers. His hand hovered over John’s knee, his eyes wide. His fingers twitched, but he made no move as John stared into his eyes. Questions flitted through John’s mind. _What are you doing here? Is your mother all right? Do you need to go back?_

But, when John opened his mouth, all that came out was a growl. He grabbed at the vee of material framing Sherlock’s throat and yanked him over, crashing their mouths together. As Sherlock grunted, John licked along the closed seal of Sherlock’s lips, urging them open. He wanted that mouth open and mobile against his, not shocked into stillness, but just as he was about to give up, to let the fear creep in that Sherlock had only come in to tell him they had made a mistake, Sherlock moaned against John’s mouth, opening his lips and curling his tongue around John’s.

John jerked down against Sherlock’s shirt again. He meant to pull Sherlock closer, get Sherlock on the bed with him, but instead his hand skidded down Sherlock’s chest, catching against the shirt once more a few inches down. Sherlock surged forward, biting into John’s lip as his hands flew out to John’s knee and shoulder. They stayed frozen for a moment, and John opened his eyes to see Sherlock’s squeezed shut, his face red.

John smiled and kissed Sherlock’s lips, which were pressed into a thin line, and then pulled back, palpating the bite mark on his lip. It was a little swollen, but it wasn’t bleeding.

Somehow, Sherlock’s face grew redder. “John, I-- I’m so sor-- Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just kiss me, you berk.” John tugged, more gently this time, at Sherlock’s shirt, but instead of leaning in, Sherlock looked down at John’s hand.

“You tore out a button.”

“You’re just now noticing that?”

Sherlock peered up at John without moving his head, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. He squeezed John’s knee and spread his fingers up the inside of John’s thigh. “I was distracted.”

“Oh, you...” John shimmied closer, tilting his head to swoop to Sherlock’s mouth, but he paused within a hair’s breadth, peering down at Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock let out a gust of breath, his fingers flexing against John’s thigh. “What--”

“This is ruined already, right?” John peered at Sherlock through his lashes, running his tongue over his bottom lip.

“I have a tailor who can sew the buttons back on.”

“What if we can’t find them?”

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat, and his chest pressed so enticingly against his shirt and the back of John’s hand. “Who cares?”

“Good,” John gruffed, grabbing Sherlock’s shirt in both hands and yanking the sides apart. Buttons pinged against furniture and bounced against the hardwood floors in an expensive staccato.

After a moment, the buttons settled and the only sounds left in the room were their heaving breaths as John stared at Sherlock’s bare torso. Ripping the tails from the back of Sherlock’s trousers, John said, “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do that?”

He pushed the shirt off Sherlock’s shoulders, yanking hard to free Sherlock’s hands from each still-buttoned cuff.

“About as long as I’ve wanted to do this,” Sherlock answered, sliding off the bed. Circling away, he fiddled with his flies and dropped his trousers and pants, stepping out of the remainder of his clothes still facing away from John.

Ah, there it was. “What? Flash me your arse?”

Sherlock finished his arc at the foot of the bed, smirking. “No. This.”

And with that, he crawled onto the bed, reaching for John’s groin. John dropped to his elbows, dizzy with arousal, his vision tunneling to Sherlock’s naked body coming towards him like a nocturnal predator. And as Sherlock’s fist wrapped around the bedclothes still covering John’s legs, John could swear he saw those eyes flash.

Sherlock pulled down the covers until his own knees got in the way, revealing the rest of John’s body, and he hummed. “Scoot up. Get some pillows.”

John didn’t dare delay. He pushed himself up on the heels of his hands and launched himself towards the head of the bed, piling up pillows behind his back. Sherlock was already settling on his stomach in between John’s legs by the time he got himself situated. God, what a sight. Sherlock’s legs were spread, his arse squeezing and releasing as he rocked against the mattress, and John had to imagine that felt incredible. These sheets were exquisite, and John lamented that he hadn’t tried that. But he would have opportunities. He could put himself in Sherlock’s position next time, and wasn’t that just scorching, propped up on his elbows with Sherlock’s cock bobbing near his mouth. Oh, he wanted to chase it with his tongue. 

John reached for the waistband of his pants, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist.

“No. Leave them.”

John shuddered. God, what was Sherlock going to do? His eyes trapped in Sherlock’s, John nodded, letting his hand fall to the mattress.

As if John’s arm were the lever on a clapboard, the moment it hit the bed, Sherlock was on him, pressing his nose to John’s balls and inhaling. He did it again and again, the inhales cool against John’s bollocks, the exhales warm on his perineum. If John hadn’t been nearing the verge of orgasm when Sherlock came in, it would have been the perfect slow build. He would have wallowed in it, but as it was, it drove him crazy. It was just short of the amount of stimulation he needed. If Sherlock would only press his face a bit tighter to John’s body.

John’s legs twitched, and one heel flew up to hook under Sherlock’s arm. “Sherlock, please.”

Without moving his face, Sherlock laid his palm over John’s cock, sliding up and down, still this side of too gentle. John squirmed against the mattress, his legs restless as he whined and moaned. He wanted to thrust so badly. He was going to lose his mind.

“God,” he huffed, his back arching as he stuffed his fist into his mouth, biting hard.

Finally, he felt the fabric of his pants being pulled away, but he didn’t dare look down. He shut his eyes so tight he saw stars, and even if he hadn’t seen them before, he would have when he felt something warm and wet and velvety slide over his slit.

John grunted around his fist, his gaze snapping down in time to see Sherlock licking his lips. Their eyes locked as Sherlock rubbed his slick mouth over John’s glans and let him breach. He stopped once his lips slid over the corona, applying just a bare amount of suction as the tip of his tongue slid up, flicking at the frenulum before starting its journey again. It made John groan, his head falling back and his fist slipping from his mouth as he panted out half of Sherlock’s name again and again.

He felt a graze of teeth over the tip of his cock, and his hips kicked forward, sliding his cock farther into Sherlock’s mouth.

John spasmed, trying to hold still as he panted out, “Sorry. Sor--”

A guttural, hoarse groan ripped from John’s mouth. Sherlock’s mouth had engulfed him, sliding up and down in a frantic rhythm, and it was all over. He couldn’t have stopped the thrusting of his hips if he’d wanted to, but Sherlock’s moans only encouraged him.

“Oh fuck, that’s it.” John tried to look down at Sherlock, catching only glimpses in the bare moments he was able to force his eyes open. He was so close. The tension in his groin wound up and up, his arse clenched tight as he hovered on the precipice, and with one more graze of Sherlock’s teeth, he fell over.

His arse hit the bed, and he hunched in on himself, shouting with each pulse. Sherlock moaned around him, and John wished he could see the look on Sherlock’s face. He wanted to see Sherlock blissed out from John coming in his mouth, but he couldn’t have opened his eyes at that moment if his life depended on it.

With one final tremor, John fell back to the bed, sucking in great gulps of air as Sherlock’s mouth slipped off him. He reached out, beckoning Sherlock up.

“Come here.”

Sherlock grunted in return, and John finally opened his eyes to see Sherlock kneeling, scuttling backwards on the bed as he held up a single finger. John furrowed his brows, but then his face opened in realization as Sherlock hurried to the bathroom. As Sherlock spit and ran the water, John’s gaze landed on the place where Sherlock was lying.

There was a wet spot, and if John hadn’t just come, he’d probably be hard again. He leaned over, tucking his legs behind him as he reached for it. Sherlock came from giving John a blow job. God.

As John swiped his thumb through Sherlock’s come, Sherlock came back into the room.

“That’s disgusting, John.”

Raising one eyebrow, John slid his wet thumb into his mouth, sucking it clean. “I think it’s fucking hot as hell. Come here.”

John scooted to the edge of the bed, and Sherlock stood between his legs. “I’m not kissing you right after you did that.”

John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s sternum, licking a stripe before saying, “Who knew you’d be the squeamish one.”

“The texture is too close to that of mucus.”

“Then why let me come in your mouth?”

Sherlock lowered one eyebrow, the same eye narrowing. “You didn’t exactly give me much warning.”

John could feel his cheeks heating. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Sherlock shrugged before stooping to John’s ear. “I do love to see you blush.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to catie-brie for the beta.


End file.
